Lia Valencia | Aphrodite (philommeides) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-10-19 13:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | aphrodite, ares |
Don't be scared, don't be scared, baby...
Who: Lia & Samuel.
What: Samuel doesn't like being "sick." Lia doesn't like his attitude. And YET! Nursing occurs! Also costume discussion.
Where: 707.
When: Afternoon.
Warnings: Language.
Notes: Placeholder for Gdoc Complete! :D
Things had been a little... strange for Lia over the past few weeks.
Nothing bad, per se. Things just seemed... easier. The offer for syndication of her column went through, and she’d been asked to make appearances on several different talk and news shows in the past week. There was buzz about a book, and she’d been invited to give lectures in various venues, and even run a workshop-slash-seminar on relationships. Doors seemed to be opening for her everywhere; at the last lecture she gave, a really well-known sexologist had approached her and told her she might have an opportunity for her if she were interested.
Which she was.
All the work she’d been afforded, though, had kept her away a bit over the past week, and she’d just gotten in from a trip to San Francisco for a conference. Her plane had arrived early, and rather than calling Samuel to pick her up, she decided to surprise him instead. As she rode the elevator up, she was torn; she wanted to check herself, maybe change, before she went to see Samuel, but as the “6” over the elevator door lit up, she impulsively hit the “7,” and went to his door, rolling her sea-blue bag behind her. She knocked twice before letting herself in.
“Bello?” she said as she stepped into his apartment. “Sam?”
She set her bag out of the way and threw the bolt. “I’m home!”
In the kitchen Samuel started, Gatorade sloshing noisily against the plastic walls of its bottle. He lowered it from his lips, his voice rough as he called to her. “In here,” he said. The refrigerator door stood open, its cool air pouring out over his skin. He looked inside, assessing its rather depressing contents: still more Gatorade, Vitamin Water, celery, lettuce. To someone unfamiliar with Samuel’s dietary habits it might have seemed little more than a healthy change of pace; to anyone who knew him, it was a sign things had gone somehow awry. He pushed the refrigerator door closed with one knee, confident that it was safe, at least, to be seen with drink in hand. He shuffled barefoot to the door of the kitchen, hoping to meet her halfway. The shift in position unfortunately allowed him a view of his still destroyed apartment.
The insurance agent had come out to assess the damage, somewhat dubiously accepting the police report he had leaned on a friend to file. As far as the Newport Beach PD were concerned - and by extension, as far as his renter’s insurance knew - someone had broken into the apartment and wreaked fair havoc. Everyone seemed willing to assume it was some disgruntled victim of a violent raid or arrest led by Samuel himself, and that was, he hoped, where the investigation would end. Though his apartment remained in relative shambles, it was a comfort to know a check was in the mail, and soon all would be put to rights. Still, Lia’s arrival provided a much needed distraction from such things, and to her he now moved, a faint smile quirking his lips.
“Welcome back, sugar,” he said, reaching to snake one arm around her waist. He leaned down, kissing her temple. “How was the trip?”
At first, her smile was blinding as she slid her arms around him as well, hugging him tightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“It was good! No delays, and we were ridiculously early, as you can see. Which is good, because I missed you terribly.” She shifted to press a kiss to his lips, her fingers threading through his hair. Then, she pulled back a bit, taking a good look at him with a little smile.
“Orange?” she asked, licking the taste she’d stolen from him from her lip as she took a look at him, tracing her fingers along his hair line. He looked... tired? Samuel always had a healthy tan on his face, particularly when he wasn’t working third shift, just from the amount of surfing he did, but today, his color was off.
“Hey,” she said looking into his eyes, “are you OK, babe?”
“Yep,” he said. “Bright eyed and bushy tailed as always.” He gave her another tight squeeze, then drifted away, moving back toward the open, bullet-scarred living room. He reached for the remote and turned the television on, turning the volume up before he so much as fully registered what channel it was on. Unsurprisingly the Military Channel was on, with Future Weapons now set to ear-piercing volume. The Dillon M134 Gatling gun was, at its most palatable, near deafening; now, it was truly almost too much to take. Samuel found it the perfect distraction.
“Get you anything?” he asked, turning the television down just enough to be sure he was heard.
Lia pursed her lips and followed him into the living room, for an instant physically recoiling from the loudness of the television, her expression shifting to a full-fledged frown, furrowed brow and all. If she’d suspected something was off before, she was certainly convinced of it now. Between his pallor and his evasion, it was clear that he wasn’t telling her something, and she strongly suspected that he wasn’t entirely well.
“Samuel,” she said firmly, reaching for the remote in an attempt to lower the volume. It took her a number of swipes given his superior height and well established penchant for teasing her, but eventually she won her prize. “Are you serious right now? Come on.”
Moving in front of him, she looked into his face again, more troubled with each passing moment by the way he looked and the way he was acting.
“You don’t look well, bello. Did something happen while I was away?” she asked. “Something else with... Ares?”
“No.”
The word fell more sharply than he had intended; it told more than he had planned to share. He gritted his teeth, cursing himself for how poorly he was handling this. Equally frustrating was his embarrassment at his own weakness; one was bad enough without the other, and he was remarkably unfamiliar with both. In a flimsy attempt to hide this he turned from her, taking a lengthy pull from the upturned bottle as he headed back toward the kitchen.
Her jaw dropped at his curt dismissal, and she followed close behind him.
“OK, Captain Machismo, I’ll just ignore the fact that you look like hell, that you’re drinking Gatorade, which I’ve only ever seen you ingest under duress and during the most heinous of hangovers --”
She cut herself off, looking at him, her hands on her hips.
“Is that it? Are you hungover?” Her frown became more severe. He knew better than to think she’d have an issue with him going out drinking when she wasn’t there -- despite having been together for as long as they had, they still went out with other friends often enough, and it wasn’t an issue. Unless, of course, something had happened that would be an issue.
“What happened?” she asked, heat rising in her cheeks.
He could guess her expression, the very lines of her posture, without so much as turning around. But he did all the same, knowing that to continue this appearance of ignoring her was to bait her more than he truly cared to. He did not trust himself to answer at once, still feeling too keenly the sting of her rapid fire, accusing questions. Instead he turned the bottle up once more, petulantly, defiantly polishing off the last of the Gatorade. He tossed the empty bottle to the counter behind him, ignoring its clatter as it came to rest.
“Nothing happened,” he snapped. It was the truth in spirit, if not the letter. The real, unvarnished truth of it - that he had no idea what had brought this on, or what was continuing to exacerbate the problem in spite of all his best efforts to do otherwise - was to him far more troubling. “I didn’t go out last night, or the night before, and I’ve not had anything to drink but water and that shit in days.” He gestured behind him, his disgust plain in his limited motions.
“Don’t you get all pissy with me,” she said sharply, even as she moved to pick up the bottle and put it in the recycling bin. While it was good to know that he hadn’t been snorting blow off stripper tits -- not that she’d really thought that was what had happened, but she’d caught boyfriends up to worse shenanigans -- it still remained that something was apparently seriously amiss. Despite her tone and her frown, she still moved back to him, reaching up to brush his short hair back, her touch gentle even if her words hadn’t been. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, but I’m only trying to help.”
With that, she stepped away from him to look in the refrigerator; her eyes widened, and she looked back at him.
“Jesus, bello, what the hell...”
His jaw tightened at the question-that-wasn’t. He shifted against the counter, unconsciously moving toward the door. He had no more answers for her; he had none even for himself. One shoulder lifted in a shrug, languid and meaningless. The television blared in the background, a blanket of white noise inviting him into its welcoming folds. He moved toward the sound, noting with disappointment and immediate displeasure his lack of a drink in his hand. But he could rectify this soon enough, he thought, once he had at least a believable lie to give her in place of flimsy excuses. It would not do for him to visit a clinic now, and his fear was that she would insist: If he was unwell enough to require medical attention, he might be unwell enough to be barred from returning to work, and this, of course, simply would not do. Grumbling, he moved to the couch, sulkily dropping his weight into the deep cushions.
For Lia’s part, her jaw dropped at what she interpreted to be his dismissal of her, and she slammed the refrigerator door shut before stalking into the living room after him. Further grated by the noise of the television in the living room, she snatched up the remote from where she’d tossed it and turned the volume down to a nigh-inaudible level. Once she’d set the remote on top of the TV stand (and out of his immediate reach), she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.
“You know what? You’re being an enormous asshole right now, and I don’t think it’s cute or funny. If you want me to leave, you can just say so instead of feeding me this passive-aggressive, petulant bullshit.”
For some reason - perhaps because he knew it fit so well, perhaps because it was further evidence he was not feeling quite himself - it was the ‘passive’ part of her comment that wore on him so. He stared up at her, wanting more than anything to further needle her by shifting around her to look, still, at the television’s mindless, mute parade of images, but kept from this childish course of action by the lingering influence of that single word. Again his jaw tightly set, his teeth digging into the edge of his tongue. If he was to be honest with her, if he was to head this pointless argument off before it got wholly out of hand, he had some clear parameters to set, restrictions by which they might both abide.
“I already told you,” he said, leaping, as ever, headlong into things. “Nothing happened.” He let slip a slight exhalation, a muffled little snort of clear derision. “About a week ago I started feeling weird and it’s gotten worse. Now it’s just plain shitty. It’s like I’m dehydrated, but you see what the fuck’s in my fridge. I’ve quit eating salt, I drink as much water as I can take to work without raisin’ any eyebrows, but nothin’s helped. And before you ask, I’m not going to a doctor, or clinic, or an off duty nurse, or anything my Lieutenant or HR department can find out about.”
Her mouth opened as soon as he started talking, though it snapped shut as he continued. Her expression shifted from fierce irritation at his tone to surprise to genuine concern as he explained the situation. A frown furrowed her brow as she moved out of his way and sat next to him, pulling her legs up onto the couch as she looked at him, her hand going to his forehead and brushing his hair away from his face.
For a minute or two, that was all she did, trying to come up with arguments for what he should do that weren’t obvious or that he hadn’t already addressed. In the meantime, her other hand went to his chest, lightly stroking through his shirt.
“Well,” she said finally, resigned to his particular brand of stubbornness, and deciding that for now, she’d let him do things his way. If things got worse, she’d push him to seek medical attention, but until that point, it wasn’t a battle worth fighting, and would only add stress to what was obviously already a touchy subject for him. “If that’s the way you feel about it, will you at least let me take care of you?”
Her tone had softened significantly, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It helped that she seemed to understand; it helped that she spoke his strange, standoffish language. He thought for a moment on her proposition, not entirely convinced she would keep her end of the bargain. She had given up far too easily to be believed. Still, there was perhaps a light at the end of this tunnel, one he intended to stride ever toward. At last a grin crept across his face, brightening his somewhat peaked features. “That depends,” he said. “Are you gonna throw in a slutty nurse’s outfit?”
At that, she slapped his chest and pinched his cheek, getting up from the couch. “Maybe. I’m not saying I already have one. But I’m not saying I don’t.” With that and a nonchalant little shrug, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, then went to the kitchen, getting him another bottle of Gatorade. As she walked back into the living room, she said,
“You know, I’m just saying, nobody has to know you went to the doctor. I won’t tell anyone. I know a doctor or two in LA who’d be very discreet.” With that, she gave him her best, most charming smile as she sat back down next to him, opening the bottle for him and offering it to him.
He took the bottle from her hand, shaking his head as he put it to his lips. He did not give too much thought to what might have led her to acquaint herself with such medical personnel; it was none of his business, after all, and the worst assumptions he might make would not necessarily be the most accurate. After a long sip he said, “I’ll keep it in mind. Hopefully I’ll knock this out before it comes to that.” It went without saying that his definition of it ‘coming to that’ likely differed quite greatly from hers. Weeks or even months might pass before he felt inclined to seek professional advice; she, on the other hand, seemed ready to make an appointment for him before the day was out. But this was an argument for another time. He saw an opportunity for a change in topic, and he wasted no time in taking it.
“Speaking of outfits, though,” he said, “what about that nurse getup you ‘may or may not’ have? Our good neighbor’s got that party going on at his club, after all. Seems like as good a reason as any to show you off.”
Rolling her eyes, Lia couldn’t help but smile, nestling closer to him. She was well aware he was putting her off, but for now, it’d be enough to plant the seed in the hopes that if he didn’t recover soon, it’d be easier to convince him to go to the doctor later. For now, a costume discussion seemed very much in order, and for its sake, she allowed herself to be derailed for the moment.
“Mmm... I like it when we show each other off.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss, grinning as she did so. “So what do you think the odds are that I could get you into a nice couples costume? I mean, Game of Thrones is big this year, but it’s a little too ren faire for us, I think. Is Bonnie and Clyde too obvious? Or too dated? Mickey and Mallory is dated and a little trashy, to be honest.”
She looked thoughtful. “What do you think? I don’t want to go as some generic sexy thing. Sexy nurse, sexy angel, sexy construction worker...” She made a face.
“Jaime and Cersei would be pretty hot,” he said, cutting narrowed eyes over to her. “But I wear enough heavy-ass gear every day, I don’t want to add plate armor to it.”
Were Samuel being honest, he might have admitted it was not entirely the prospect of a heavy costume that bothered him, but the idea of wearing a costume at all. The year before he had not dressed in anything that might have even generously been called a costume. When asked, he had called himself a plainclothes officer, a joke that had either gone over the heads of most, or which had been simply unappreciated.
A slow and predatory smile crossed his lips, and he sidled closer to her still. “Do you think we could get in dressed as Crixus and Naevia?”
Lia’s eyes widened and a brilliant, delighted smile dawned on her face. Her arm went around his neck and she kissed him, her eyes twinkling with enthusiasm for this proposal. It was the most perfect thing; sexy, timely, and while there might be another Roman couples costume, there wouldn’t be a hundred of them -- and Lia would make sure theirs was the best one.
“I think you’re an absolute genius, bello!” She gave him a kiss. “That would be perfect. I know a guy in LA who can probably get us some really authentic pieces. I think I can probably even get you a real weapon, if you want.”
She grinned at him.
“I think the flyer said no weapons, even fake ones,” he said, trailing uncertainly off. “Not that the guy can say shit about my concealed carry. One of the many perks of being me.” Lia grinned as he pulled her closer, taking full advantage of her good turn of mood to steal another, far more thorough kiss. “Just make sure your buddy finds a little kilt thing long enough to cover my junk,” he added, adopting a mockingly thoughtful look. “I’m not into the loincloth look, and anyway, I can’t have you gettin’ jealous at the party just cos I’m being too authentic...”
“Oh you can’t, can you?” Lia said with a smirk before she leaned forward and nipped his lower lip and slid her arms close around him. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re decent. I don’t need any Halloween skanks making me take my earrings off.”
She kissed him again, excited now about their plans, their costumes, and everything to come.